Dreams
by sangre antigua
Summary: The Winchester boys are having nightmares. About each other. Can they come together and, for once, help themselves? AU; WINCEST


**Author:** sangre antigua.

**Rating;** **Title; Pairing:** M; Dreams; Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester.

**Summary:** The Winchester boys are having nightmares. About each other. Can they come together and, for once, help themselves? AU; WINCEST

**Warning/Disclaimer:** Do not own _Supernatural_, at all, though if I did... :'D

**DO NOT READ IF YOU DO NOT AGREE WITH/LIKE SLASH/WINCEST.**

- - -

Out of everything going on at the moment, there was only so much that Dean Winchester could stomach. He could take living out the rest of his life, no matter how short, as a hunter. The alienation from the rest of the world that it brought was nothing new. There was actually comfort in the near isolation. He didn't have to worry about a cheating wife or troubled children, nor did he have to deal with a mortgage or the strenuous tasks that "real" jobs were price-tagged with. His life was, for the most part, a giant routine: keep Sam alive, kick some evil ass, save whoever he could, keep his baby in shape and keep himself alive for as long as he could. On the whole, he could do all of them, spare a few slip-ups here and there. But Dean did what he could, and he did it well.

The only thing he couldn't stomach were the new feelings swimming around inside his stomach. They pulled at not only his heartstrings, but every nerve attached to his groin and his sense of morality. The thoughts were wrong, wrong, wrong on every plane, but so very right, right, right when he dreamed them. Dean imagined that they would be worse than Hell. He could see if he was right in a few months, as a matter of fact.

The dreams were always so vivid, too; the most beautiful torture-sessions Dean would ever partake in. They were actually more vivid than real life. When Dean drove around, he didn't take time to take in the scenery or smell the air. He just drove through it in a haze, his ultimate goal far more important than the world around him. Like horse blinders, Dean's eyes were straight ahead, focused on things like innocent lives, demon ass and the like.

But in these dreams, he could feel the orgasms building up within his gut, warming his whole body; he could smell the beads of sweat as every pore wept with joy; he could see muscles ripple with exertion, tensing and going slack over and over with each thrust. The dreams were like being tied to a bed and then having a really hot stripper give him a striptease. He could watch, but he couldn't touch.

But instead of it being a really hot stripper in his dream, it was Sam. Portraying a very hot, and a very naughty, stripper. The urge to touch him and be touched was only rivaled by the need to scrub himself until he bled.

It was the third night in a row that Dean had woken up to damp sheets, and he was running out of excuses to tell Sam if he found out. He could lay there, biting his tongue all the while, until the sheets dried, or he could get up and go to the lobby to get another set. What was worse: the looks the people behind the front desk would give him, the looks Sam would give him if he was woken up again to find his brother changing his sheets, or laying in his own sweat and seed? Dean laid there for a while, thinking about that. Curses of every caliber were lipped silently with such fervor that he bit his tongue a few times. As the taste of iron danced along his tongue, he finally decided to get out of his own mess and risk Sam waking up.

Maybe he'd get lucky and Sam would stay asleep, and the person behind the front desk wouldn't recognize him.

After balling up his sheets, still cursing, Dean redressed and crept out of the room towards the lobby of the Lakeside Motel that he and Sam had been staying at for the past week. With exception to the neon sign across the street zapping at random intervals and the occasional car rolling by, the world was silent and still. The wind was soft and cool, brushing blades of dirty blond hair from Dean's face. The ends tickled the tops of his ears as the wind goosed by his exposed neck.

"I should be sleeping, too," Dean huffed to himself, crinkling his face in disgust. "But, no. Had to have a wet dream. _Again._" With his free hand, he scratched at his scalp and sighed loudly. Wet dreams were nothing new to Dean. They weren't as much fun as actually having sex, but if he was having a dry spell they did the job. But when they were about Sam, dream after dream after dream, with so much clarity, more than Dean had ever experienced in a dream, it got old. He even remembered them more than his other dreams. The images were burnt into his brain; Sam's labored breathing replaced the static in his ears. When they were out on hunts, he got goosebumps whenever Sam would pant and gasp. Sometimes, they captivated him so much that he would freeze, open to all of the enemies lurking in the shadows. When Sam would pull him to safety, yelling at him in the quietest tone he could muster, Dean would just shove him off and grunt, "I'm _fine_."

Caught up in his thoughts, Dean ran into the glass door of the lobby. On the other side of the glass he could hear the receptionist trying to hide her laughter. It was almost four in the morning and the lobby was clear except for her, and before Dean's collision, it had been silent except for the sound her magazine made when she leafed through it. His cheeks flushing a deep crimson, Dean debated on turning back towards his room, his tail between his legs. But he shoved that thought aside and pressed on. He needed new sheets. And he needed a drink. A strong one, with a proof well beyond any beer could offer.

The conversation between Dean and the receptionist consisted mainly of Dean's grunts and her requests for him to repeat himself. His eyes were glued to the floor the whole time, and when she finally understood what he had said, he shoved his arms out for her to take the sheets with an incoherent "thank you, I'm sorry". He felt like a five-year-old after wetting the bed, running to the closest parent for a clean set.

The amusement on her face as she took the sheets and went to grab a fresh pair was only surpassed by Dean's shame and misery. Usually he could laugh his way out of any embarrassing situation, but tonight was not his night. Hell, this _week_ was not his night.

He took the sheets without another word. The receptionist looked like she wanted to say, "Don't let the door hit you on your way out." He could see it on her face; in the contours of her suppressed smirk and the way her hand kept fluttering from the desk to her chest, just waiting to cover her mouth. So Dean hurried to his room, somehow managing not to hit the door on his way out. He did, though, trip over a door-stopper, but he was out of range by then.

After edging back into the room without waking Sam, Dean flopped back on the mattress and groaned quietly in relief. Upon realizing that the mattress, too, was wet, the groan of relief morphed into a groan of disgust.

"Great, just great," he grunted. Sam stirred in his bed, rolling from his back onto his side, so he faced the wall. But the movement was enough to put Dean on red alert. Dean held his breath for a few minutes. He stared at the ceiling and counted how many times the clock ticked before even he risked getting back up, and when he did, he moved at snail pace. He managed to flip the mattress and make his bed without any movement from Sam. The relief Dean felt was almost tangible. He flopped on the dry bed and did his best to contain himself.

Before he falling asleep, Dean lectured himself about his dreaming. He told himself to dream like a "normal person", not some "sick, twisted fuck" who fantasized about his brother. After he had finished, it took him another half hour to finally fall back asleep.

In the other bed, Sam rolled on his back, spreadeagled. His dream was going horribly, horribly wrong, but he couldn't snap out of it. It was like being backed up against a brick wall, down a dead-end alleyway. He had nowhere to go. He could only watch what was going, head-on, and try his best to gloss over all of it. His attempts were futile, though. It was hard to just look through what was happening before him. It was horrific; it made his skin crawl and he was crying, in the dream _and_ in his bed.

Dean was chained to a table, like one of the iron ones in a medieval torture chamber. The chains were huge, almost three inches thick, and made of solid iron. And at the moment, they were a bright, sunshine yellow. But the yellow triggered not happiness, but shrieks from Sam that he didn't even know he could create. For his brother's skin was melting underneath the chains, roasting and bubbling beneath them. The smell was awful. Dean's expression was even worse.

There were slashes all over his body, especially on his face. There was one in particular that horrified Sam: the giant gashes from huge set of claws that ran from Dean's left eye, all the way down to his collarbone. The ivory of his bone glowed in the dim realm of hell, flickering flaxen in the candlelight.

Sam couldn't move to help his brother. He was only there to watch, not act. He couldn't remove the chains; he couldn't dry his brother's tears; he couldn't attempt to tend to his wounds; he couldn't stop the demon cackling in the corner, pondering to himself about which device to use on Dean: a scalpel, hedge clippers or a dull, rusty machete. Beside the demon, pit of fire crackled and licked at the floor.

"Let him go!" Sam cried. The fire erupted wildly and dried the tears on his cheeks. He shielded his eyes. That didn't stop Dean's screaming from reaching his ears, though. Sam screamed out incoherent pleas, asking, begging, _pleading_ to change places with his brother. "Dean!" he bellowed, his voice crackling and raspy. "Dean, Dean! I'm going to save you! I promise!"

Sam knew he couldn't.

And _that_ was the worst part.

"Dean!" Feverishly, Sam shot up. He was bawling and his bed was soaked with sweat. Tremors quaked through his entire body, and even though he was burning up, goosebumps arose on his arms and neck. For five minutes he sat there, panting and crying, but it felt like forever. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dean being tortured, those huge manacles glowing hot on his skin; when he inhaled, he smelt his brother's burning flesh and the strong smell of iron. Sam managed to collect himself for the most part. He also managed to vanquish the images and the smell.

But his brother's screams wouldn't leave. Like ghosts, they plagued him. But no amount of salting and burning would save Sam from them.

The ground underneath him felt uneven and slippery as he rose to his feet, leaning against the nightstand between the beds for support. Air came and went in heaves, and his heart palpitated as if he had just ran for miles without stopping.

But at least he was out of _there_.

Sam looked around the motel room. He was definitely out of there. No fire pits. No demons with torture devices. And no Dean being maimed.

"Dean," he whispered, and his eyes shot to the sleeping body of his elder brother. The _peacefully_ sleeping body of his brother. Sam could've hugged him right there and then. He could have dropped to his knees and thanked each and every God to have ever been worshiped. Dean was here, safe. He was unharmed and even had a smile on his face.

For now.

A shiver raked its way through Sam's body before he squashed the negative thought. Dean was here and safe. Sam, himself, was out of that hellish dream. There was no need for thoughts like that.

But there _was_ a need for new sheets.

Sam redressed and gathered his sheets, just as his brother had, and shimmied out of the room. Unlike his brother, he didn't hit the lobby door on the way in.

He hit it on the way out.


End file.
